The Prairie Doctor’s Bride. Kathryn Albright

sticky and wet. There—a lump the size of a black walnut swelled up. He winced.

      She turned to his legs. The one closest to her moved just fine. When she tested his far leg—his left leg—Tommy yelled.

      “All right, all right...” she said. She had barely moved the leg and he’d had pain. What was she to do?

      “Ma...I hurt all over.”

      She swallowed. She couldn’t leave him out in the weather like this. The ground hadn’t given up the cold of winter yet.

      “I gotta git you warm, son. I’m gonna get the quilt from the house to cover you. Then I’ll figure this out. You just rest. I’ll be right back.” She squeezed his hand firmly and then scrambled to her feet.

      She raced to the house. Yanking the quilt from her son’s straw pallet, she rushed back out to him. He was deathly pale. His eyes were half-closed.

      “This ain’t going to feel good, son,” she said as she snugged the quilt over him and tucked it around his little body, especially tight around his legs. “But you be brave. I’ll get you fixed up.”

      Sneaking her arm under his knees and her other behind his back, she lifted him up and carried him to the house. If it was possible, his face paled even more when she laid him on his pallet by the hearth. Beads of sweat glistened on his upper lip and forehead.

      “All done moving.” She used her apron to wipe his forehead, then raked his long shock of dark blond hair away from his face. “You were as brave as brave could be.”

      “I don’t feel so good.” His usually boisterous voice was thin and weak.

      She took his hand. It was cold and moist. Fear as she’d never known it before gripped her. “You hang on. I’ll get you—” His brown eyes drifted closed and his hand fell limply from hers. “Tommy!”

      His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

      Grabbing the fire iron, she stirred up the ashes in the hearth and then tossed on a cow chip.

      She had best look at that leg. Carefully, she unwrapped the quilt from Tommy, then took a knife from the cupboard drawer and cut away his trousers.

      And sat back, staring at the ugly wound on his leg. Her gut tightened. It looked bad. Real bad. A flap of skin had been scraped back in a wide swath along the side near the ankle. The skin was swollen and purple. Could she fix it?

      Then another thought took hold. Had he broken his ankle too? It had all happened so fast. Maybe she couldn’t fix either of his ailments.

      She took a closer look at his head, wincing at the size of the lump that had formed. He’d bled through the coarse cotton covering of the pallet, but she’d heard that head wounds always bled a lot. The flow of blood seemed to be slowing, congealing now. She couldn’t do anything for a head injury. It would have to heal itself. She felt so helpless.

      She got to her feet, grabbed the soap and the bowl and the pitcher from the table, and came back to him. “I sure hope you don’t wake up and feel this, son, ’cause it will break my heart if I’m a-hurtin’ you.”

      With that, she set to work rinsing out the dirt and splinters of the old roof and cleaning out the wound. Then she slathered a layer of honey over it and wrapped it in a clean cloth.

      She wished that someone at the DuBois farm was home. Adele would know what to do, but just yesterday the family had stopped by to tell her they were on their way to Salina to purchase a new ox.

      Sylvia pulled Tommy’s pallet closer to the fire. Not knowing what else to do, she sat down in her rocking chair and watched him for signs of rousing.

      She took comfort in the fact that he was breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest was sweeter to her than a meadowlark’s song. Surely he’d wake up soon. Surely the Lord wouldn’t take Tommy from her too.

      But the next hour brought no change. Her confidence in Tommy’s recovery slowly eroded. It seemed that a child should bounce back quick and this wasn’t quick. She gave him a little jiggle, pushing on his shoulder. Then put a cold cloth to his face. He didn’t stir.

      Pale sunlight streamed through a small window and slanted across the dirt floor. It would be dark in another hour.

      She wasn’t used to sitting. Wasn’t used to letting life happen to her. She preferred to go out and meet it. For seven years, she’d worked hard to make a life for the two of them. She wasn’t about to see that stop, not if there was an ounce of strength left in her body.

       Chapter Four

      The sun cast a pink glow over the entire town when Nelson left his office and walked toward the Oak Grove Town Hall. Since the evenings still carried the chill of winter, the shindig was taking place inside the building that Jackson Miller had just completed. From the street, he could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and laughter through the tall windows.

      He stepped up onto the boardwalk and through the front doors. The new construction held the strong scent of fresh-cut lumber and varnish. He scanned the packed room, grateful to be a head taller than most of the people inside. The bachelors that had donated to the bride fund through the Betterment Committee milled about along with several other families from outside town. Guess they were anxious to gather and socialize. Another few weeks and they would be up to their necks in planting their fields or caring for the newly born calves. Getting away from their farms and ranches to have a moment of fun would not be possible until summer arrived.

      A heavy hand clasped his shoulder. “I wondered if you would throw in with the rest of us, Doc.”

      Graham turned. “Hello, Jess. Giving it another try?”

      A wide grin covered the younger man’s face as he grasped Nelson’s hand in a strong shake. “Practice makes perfect, right, Doc? May the best man win.” Jess moved closer to the front of the room.

      As he looked over the brides, Nelson reminded himself that he really needed a nurse. That was primary. Of course, he couldn’t very well blurt out his intentions here. The men of Oak Grove would likely show him the door. They wanted wives, helpmeets in life, and they wouldn’t take kindly to his motives.

      His own parents’ marriage wasn’t the best standard to judge what a good marriage looked like, but it was all he had to go by. And what with his failed courtship, it seemed to him that sticking to a nonemotional, practical union made the most sense. It was safer.

      Mayor Melbourne climbed the two steps to the small stage and stood there, gripping the lapels of his silk vest and surveying the group. He waved his hands for everyone to quiet down. Then he motioned to the new brides to come to the front of the room. He introduced each of the five and said a small bit about them.

      The two older women stood next to each other, looking poised and lovely, while the three younger ones clustered together in a clutch like barnyard chickens. He grimaced. Perhaps that was a bit critical. Being observant was a good attribute to have in medicine, but not in social gatherings. It reminded him of something his father would say.

      The mayor cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “I’ll have the bachelors that donated to the Betterment Committee, and only those, line up now and introduce yourselves briefly to the ladies,” he announced.

      Nelson counted twenty men who lined up. He stepped toward the back. As the men made their way across the stage, some were quiet and sincere, some cracked a joke to cover up their nervousness and some were eager to the point of embarrassing. It came to him that he was none of these. He simply wanted to assess each woman as unemotionally as possible. That way he could be sure his decision would be based on facts and not feelings.

      His turn finally arrived, and he made his way down the row of five women, making mental notes as he went from one to the next.

      Miss Vandersohn: Chestnut hair, dark green eyes. Petite